Anniversary
by motoroilfreeway
Summary: [USUKUS] Hearing about his cousin's death through social media feels like a beginning of a horrible film. It did not stop him from boarding the nearest plane to go back to England, to the source of his old nightmares. He's just thankful Alfred was there with him all the way. Very thankful. Part 2 of Youth series


**A/N: Warnings for implied incest (not usukus), brief mentions of self-harm, and a character suffering from depression and anxiety  
**

* * *

 _You'll be with Mum in heaven now. Big brother will miss you._

The last bits of the post say.

Arthur takes a few moments to drag himself back to reality. It felt like he lost himself more and more as he read through that bloody post. Then he scrolls back up to see if it was his cousin who posted it. If it really was his cousin's little sister. It's just too strange is all. Too much like a plot of a horrible film.

But he sees the name and the profile picture. That's Rocky.

His cousin.

The photo he posted along with his little farewell was of his little sister. She was born with some kind of genetic disease that made it impossible for her to speak or get up so she spent most of her time lying in bed, her limbs too fragile to do anything else. Arthur was only in elementary when he saw her, can't even tell how old she was then but how she looked-skin and bones-he would've thought they weren't feeding her at all if he didn't know it's just a part of her disability.

Everything felt too light, his body floating off into space. His eyes glazed as he stares at the letters and the pictures, everything blurring out.

Then he jumps when he feels arms wound around him, warm and big and suddenly he felt like he was falling off, into Alfred's arms.

Or more like his chest, his arms around him. He hears Alfred make a startled noise, feel the tremors in his chest as he moves to properly support him up. Arthur absently turns his head towards Alfred's face and Alfred looks back with concern.

"Hey, you feeling alright?" He says in a voice so low it surprised Arthur that Alfred is actually capable of making an indoor voice.

(Actually he doesn't. Doubt him, that is. Alfred can be quite sweet sometimes, when he thinks they aren't as alone as they thought they are and he gently bumps his head to his, their foreheads touching as he tells him things-silly things-in a voice so low it sounded like he doesn't want anyone else but Arthur to hear them. It's one of those things in life that makes Arthur wonder if he truly deserved this kind of happiness that instead of pushing Alfred off for being a sap and silly, he smiles and laughs, low in his throat; afraid to shatter the little moment of warmth they shared.)

"—thur. Arthur. Hey! You alright? Want to lie down? Really, say something." He heard Alfred say, his thoughts blown like a fire on a wick. Did his thoughts drift again?

And here he thought today was a good day.

He swallows then opens his mouth, his hand coming up to touch Alfred's arms that are still wound around him, supporting him to stay upright. "I'm fine." He manages to say, hopefully they don't sound like he's breaking apart in the inside. He can't feel his legs, it seems. Alfred will notice that soon. "I think I just need to sit down." He gestures at the couch nearby. Alfred doesn't have to be told twice before he starts moving, turning Arthur's arm over his shoulder and let's his arm to remain around his waist to carry him.

When they're settled, Alfred pressing him to his side, Arthur finds himself to struggle with his words, "I'm going back to England tomorrow."

The reaction was instantaneous. Alfred balked, pushing him slightly away, still mindful that Arthur's not feeling well to give him his look of complete disbelief. If he didn't know anything it would've looked more like Arthur said that he's some kind of a werecat.

And the grass is pink, is how it goes, doesn't it. (But the notion itself was ridiculous, since werecats aren't real.)

He still had his phone clasped between his fingers, his palm underneath was damp with his sweat. He shows it to Alfred and points at his phone, at a certain facebook post.

"My cousin died." It sombers the expression on Alfred's face and he looks apologetic. "Oh." He says, his eyes roving at the article on Arthur's phone. "Lachlan," He says, more like to himself, testing the words on his tongue like a new flavour.

"I've never heard of him before."

"That's because I never told you."

* * *

Arthur's parents made themselves heard that they don't want any of their children be seen playing with Rocky—considering Rocky's older sisters are way too old for Arthur to play with and they're barely around. Rocky is a bad influence, they said, which was also why Arthur goes to a private school, because if he goes to a public school, like any other kid, he'll get to see Rocky five times a week, which will lead Arthur into doing bad things like Rocky does.

(It wasn't like it stopped him from being the rebellious child he was, the very kind of child his parents had warned him from being friends with. They had always blamed Rocky for it, but really, it was all Arthur. He's a fucked up little shit whose brain is all scrambled; always stuck in his own head to boil in oil that was his thoughts.)

It was hard for Arthur to believe them, really. Rocky was good guy. They play all the time and Rocky doesn't make him feel left out.

His mouth just really needs a filter.

As well as other things, but in Arthur's defense, they were ten-year olds. They were kids. They don't know anything.

* * *

The walk towards the venue was hell. Arthur was glad that Alfred insisted to come with him, despite his upcoming exams. " _I won't flunk my classes for leaving the country for 2 days, Art."_ It wasn't like Arthur's worries had no basis. Alfred's parents will always be more than happy to pick any little thing they think is wrong with their son to grind up Alfred's face with why he should stop seeing Arthur.

Like the age difference wasn't bad enough, really.

Still, with Alfred's hand entwined with his, warm and all things comforting, he's glad he came with him.

He would've bolted seeing the establishment first thing if Alfred wasn't there to hold his hand and give him a comforting squeeze, despite knowing what had brought Arthur into series of episodes for the last twelve hours since he found out Marian had passed away. He couldn't seem to keep anything from Alfred.

(He's just glad that Alfred hadn't thought of him any different after that. " _It's not your fault,"_ he remembers Alfred telling him after his story was over, Arthur's eyes fixed on his lap, on his trembling hands, a finger or two probably broken from when he pushed at them too hard because the appendages looked _wrong_ and he can feel a strange buzz from his hands. Like they were singing, vibrating a painful song in his head it hurts. Tears are dripping from his eyes every time he blinks and he can't see a thing.

Alfred was just too nice, he thinks, as Alfred sets the bones back in his hands and wraps them gently in bandages. Kissing every knuckle with care like they will break like glass.

Like Arthur's sanity.)

As they near, he sees the tarpaulin posted by the door. It has Marian's recent photo in it, her eyes bright but sightless, all teeth and smiles. Her name is below her picture along with her birth and death date. It unnerves him to see that she died while he and Alfred were celebrating for Alfred's upcoming birthday a week in advance because Arthur is not going to be there on the actual day to celebrate it with him.

While they were having fun, in the other side of the world his cousin and his family were mourning for the loss of a loved one.

He could barely feel himself walking, Alfred gently pulling him inside. From a distance, he can make out Rocky, his features sharper than he had remembered. They haven't actually had an actual conversation for probably a decade at least. His eyes are covered in heavily-tinted glasses, his blue eyes barely visible in them. He loved his little sister to death. That, Arthur knows as much.

He must've cried the longest.

He was all smiles and cheers when they approached, still caught up in shaking another visitor's hand, talking to them in cheerful tones. When he's alone again by the entrance, Alfred tugs at his hand then steps closer to him to squeeze at his shoulder. Arthur nods absently, eyes fixed on Rocky's glasses. Despite being unable to see a thing behind them, he knows that the other is looking back at him with those bright if not lifeless eyes underneath.

When they got close enough, enough to see a peek of his blues under the dark lenses, Arthur manages to find his voice to say, but embarrassingly too low to be heard, "I'm sorry."

Rocky seems to have heard nonetheless, as Arthur notices how Rocky's lips tighten at his words, the corners of his lips slightly tugged up in a smile and nods. Then he tips his head slightly at Alfred, an eyebrow raising. Arthur sees in the corner of his eyes that Alfred raises an eyebrow at Rocky as well-a form of defense mechanism; copying what other people does when he's nervous or intimidated.

It seems that Arthur having (underage) sex with his own (underage at that time as well) cousin poses some kind of threat for Alfred. Arthur doesn't have the energy to do anything about it at the moment though.

In the end of the day, it won't be Rocky who will wrap their arms around him.

When either party seems to budge from their…eyebrow-raising, Arthur clears his throat and says, "This is Alfred," He tells Rocky. He can't make out what the other was thinking but he continues, if not slowly and discouraged. "My boyfriend."

Fortunately (or not), Rocky does not say anything and instead turns his eyes to Alfred, Arthur afraid if his cousin's visage of strange cheerfulness would change once it sinks in. "Alfred, this is my cousin, Lachlan-Rocky."

As if on cue, Alfred nods at Rocky, a frown set on his face, "I'm sorry for your loss," he tells him, sincere. The nerves were gone, Arthur notes and he internally sighs in relief. Rocky's expression did not change, but Arthur can read the ease rolling off his shoulders as he takes his arm out for a shake. Alfred shakes his hand and Rocky says, "It's cool, man."

How Rocky does it-to smile and look as cheerful like he wasn't in some kind of pain that Arthur knows so well, he wanted in to that secret.

They were led in, Alfred gets a friendly smack to the back as he does so and Alfred turns his head to give Rocky a small smile of appreciation. Or something. Arthur couldn't tell, too busy looking at the casket.

They stay for an hour or so, sitting in silence by the front row nearest to the casket. Arthur couldn't stop staring at Marian, who appears as if she was merely sleeping inside, her beloved doll lying next to her.

Rocky never approached them throughout the time they were there, busy talking to guests. Guests that aren't them, it seems.

He also couldn't help but notice that no one sat in the row where they were in, how other people gave them strange looks, with contempt or something else, that he couldn't tell. He was too busy staring at the crack on the wall by Marian's framed photo. She's smiling.

* * *

It was a few hours past midnight when they find a hotel to check-in. They headed straight to the funeral right after they landed on Arthur's insistence.

Arthur couldn't remember their painful trek to the room, too tired to think, too tired to pay much attention. He just wanted to lie down on the nearest comfortable horizontal surface he sees. Fuck anything else.

When the lights were turned on, Arthur's body went on autopilot. Dumping his luggage by the corner near the door and immediately stumble into the nearest bed his tired eyes could find. The only way to describe the sensation of his heavy body crashing on the mattress, causing it to creak painfully was _bliss_. He didn't care that the bed was a tad harder than the ones he slept on his apartment or Alfred's, doesn't care that he's not lying properly across it or that the blanket's he's supposed to be snuggling under was beneath him, paper-thin and crumpled.

For a moment the world stopped, carrying the buzzing in his head and the uncomfortable twist of his arm underneath him with it.

He doesn't remember how long he had been like that: lying diagonally across the single bed with an arm twisted uncomfortably, his body pressing on it and making his joints ache. He doesn't even remember if he slept at all.

It felt like only a moment has passed.

But it obviously wasn't the case.

He sees Alfred, his coat off and barefoot on the bed beside his, cross-legged and down to a comfortable shirt and underwear. Arthur notices it was the one with the stars and stripes; a present from Arthur months ago as a silly joke.

He had a hard time lifting his body, his limbs refusing to cooperate, too heavy to move. They felt like lead.

He makes a small sound from the back of his throat, hoping that the noise would somehow wake up his system, get it to move. He notices that his mouth was partially open and internally winces when his slightly uncoordinated hand comes up with saliva-sticky and wet, but he could barely feel its dampness if it wasn't for the airconditioning in the room-when he wipes at his chin.

Alfred must've heard his noise, as the other turns away from the telly in front of them and Arthur notices that he took his glasses off, a big bowl of food was settled between his legs. He holds up a spoon.

"I ordered some food from the room service, if you wouldn't mind," he explained.

Arthur blinks, wonders why Alfred had to tell him so but nods nonetheless. He can figure it out later. When Alfred doesn't stop looking at him inquiringly, he adds, raising his bowl of food, "You want anything to eat for yourself?" At which he shakes his head at.

He doesn't feel like eating. He's afraid they might just end up in the toilet later, undigested. Alfred doesn't question any further, used to Arthur's periodic bouts of lack of appetite. It was better not to force Arthur if his body is not up to it.

He realises he's still wearing his shoes as well as his coat. He was wearing pretty much everything he wore when he was out. He frowns.

He immediately heads out to the bathroom, taking off his coat on his way as well as toeing his shoes off, then his socks. He struggles for a moment before dumping them to his bed. He'll organise them later when he gets back, he decided.

For now, he needed to clean.

Arthur didn't know how long exactly did he stay in the bathroom, only that it was long enough for his skin to get wrinkles from soaking in the bath for too long and his warm water cold.

The first thing he notices when he leaves was that the room is no longer bright. Most of the lights were off, save for the lampshade by Alfred's bed. He finds Alfred between the covers, his body slightly curled around himself and snoring lightly. The telly was left on but the volume was low, creating a gentle lull that spreads around the room, calming Arthur's nerves.

He sets quick work on organising his clothes: the socks in their separate bag and the coat and hanged in the little closet. He sees no reason to put them away back into the luggage yet; they won't be flying back to America until tomorrow evening. This evening, actually.

When he thinks that he's in proper condition to sleep, he approaches his bed. For a moment, he found himself hesitating, felt his steps falter, his legs heavy as if being pulled down by a muddy soil.

He doesn't want to sleep alone tonight.

(There are many things that may come out in the dark and some of them gets you in your sleep and hold you down. Attack you.)

He knows deep in himself that his fears are being too irrational, that they're impossible to happen because he's not in his old family home in London with his parents and brothers (evil, evil people, the lot of them). He's in a hotel, not even in London, _for christ's sake_.

And if anything bad were to happen he can scream for help. Alfred is _right there_.

But what if he lost his voice?

What then?

He hastily wipes at a bead of cold sweat that formed on his forehead then promptly wipes them at the sleeves of his sleepwear. He slowly turns to Alfred, still curled underneath his blanket, breathing peacefully.

The sight of him made Arthur hesitate to wake him up.

But he's so terrified he thinks he might just drown himself in the bath if it doesn't go away.

Or break his fingers again.

Then Alfred will fret over him again and try to make his injury feel better, making Arthur drown deeper in his sea of guilt.

Alfred told him it wasn't his fault, he's not supposed to feel bad when Alfred does it because it's what Alfred wants and he's not a being a burden at all.

But fuck it, it doesn't change that that's what it feels. All the bloody time.

It felt like ages, but he manages to walk again anyway, towards Alfred's bed. His hand hovers with uncertainty above Alfred, doesn't know where to touch to wake him. He settles for gently calling his name to rouse him to sleep, but it doesn't seem to work. It was kind of ironic for someone who's supposed to have a hearing as sharp as a dog's.

(Even his horrible eyesight was something to laugh at, but Alfred reasons it was because _he's not a dog_ , not really.)

Swallowing his fears (momentarily), he pokes at Alfred's shoulder, jutting out just slightly from the little slip of the fabric. At this, Alfred jumps, almost screams at his face if it wasn't for Arthur's scent to calm him down. Arthur was close enough for Alfred to smell him.

He swallows again, feeling his tongue sitting heavily in his mouth. He couldn't even look into Alfred's eyes, afraid to see a sign that he disturbed a good night's sleep. God knows Alfred needed it. He noticed that the other barely had a wink during their flight.

It appears that Arthur doesn't need to talk to be understood though, as Alfred pulls Arthur out of his own thoughts by tugging at his hand, all the while shuffling on his bed, making space for Arthur to lie next to him. Arthur follows without protest.

The bed was cramped, leaving them to lie uncomfortably by their sides, Arthur's body pushed intimately close to Alfred's. He notices that Alfred took off his shirt on his sleep, feeling his firm chest against his arms, bare but warm.

"Feeling cold?" Alfred tugs at the blanket to cover them both completely but it being paper thin, Arthur doesn't think it would do much for the cold.

"You could just turn up the heat," Arthur replies, shuffling with Alfred to find a better and more comfortable sleeping position. The one they settle into still wasn't the most comfortable with the blanket barely covering their sides but neither complained.

"But then it would be too hot." Alfred breathes into his neck, lightly nibbling at it. Arthur feels himself shudder when Alfred's warm breath ghost over his moistened flesh. Alfred gets a slight smack for his troubles.

"Stop that," Arthur hisses, but does have any heat in it. He can feel a laugh bubbling out of his throat, low and warm. The warm glow of light from the lampshade by their bed helps comfort his nerves and he starts feeling himself drift off.

Alfred notices and stops his teasing, slightly shuffles in the bed again to move Arthur's head so that it rests on his chest, a hand coming up to wrap around Arthur's in a gentle grip. Arthur returns it with a gentle squeeze and breathes out through his nose, feeling the demons flushing out of him as he does so.

"Thank you," He feels Alfred's eyes turn on him at that, glowing bright and blue in the dark, like that of an animal's. He knows that Alfred can see his face despite the bad lighting of the room, being what he is.

Instead of elaborating further, he merely nuzzles at Alfred's chest, kissing him below his jaw as he does so.

After that, Alfred doesn't seem to need much elaborating after all, his hold on him tightening, kissing the top of his head.

They sleep.

* * *

 **E/N: Arthur's cousins are OCs. My initial idea was that Lachlan is Denmark. But then I outlined his family and turns out they don't fit any of the Nordics. But he pretty much looked a hella lot like Denmark here. If you wanna know. Just had a weird thing about calling him Rocky for once, dunno why lol. *Rocky theme plays in the BG***


End file.
